


Funhouse mirror

by VsaFic



Series: That one time tristana almost got longbow’d to death in Demacia after Sylas’ revolution [4]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Ficlet, Food, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23009845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VsaFic/pseuds/VsaFic
Summary: Tristana’s been in a situation she hates for a month. Tomorrow, she’s free, and begins realizing maybe she doesn’t hate the situation as much as she thinks she does.—Ficlet taking place at the end of a plot with only the necessary context for one to understand. Focused on character relationships and also me indulging with two otps, cause who will do it if not me. T rating for philosophizing that the kids will find boring to read.
Relationships: Lulu/Veigar (League of Legends), Teemo/Tristana (League of Legends)
Series: That one time tristana almost got longbow’d to death in Demacia after Sylas’ revolution [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654630
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Funhouse mirror

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank the iPad app Write for giving me only a blank space and nothing else, And my physical exhaustion from being an animation student and also my existential grief today, couldn’t have done this without you 
> 
> I missed writing

She doesn’t really want to return, no.

It feels weird to tell that to herself, let it sink in for real, but she doesn’t want to return much. Not now.

Not for the past few days.

Past week.

She’s become a master of her body; a professional of poker faces, fake roles and bad-cop routines. Soldier training kind of comes with that whole starter pack. It’s shattered just now.

Not in a scandalous way, never; the conditioning’s taken too much root for it to be scandalous. Naught but a small wince, that’s been it. But it still has taken her off guard to admit to herself that she doesn’t really feel like returning. That she has had a taste of freedom for about a month and it has poisoned her. She works best under constraints, bound to her discipline and her work and the added weights of house chores.

 _You’re not supposed to be here,_ retorts the soldier inside her. _You were never supposed to. You would go, check the perimeter around the portal and return. The part where you got stabbed with petricite arrows was the narrative disruption in the first arc of the Hero’s Journey, like in mom’s books about writing._

 _Lulu was the mentor figure in the beginning of the adventure,_ her mind jests, cause she can’t stop quipping clever bullshit mic drops, not even while having an existential crisis in the living room of a tent-turned-house-with-spatial-transformation-magic miles away from home.

No one watered Teemo’s garden in a month. He’s gonna flip his shit. He’s also not said anything on the matter in about two weeks, like he too has forgotten that they are supposed to have their own house back in the city and not share a living space with their sworn arch-rivals in an incense-scented room behind a curtain of glass beads. In their house. Smack in the middle of the villain’s lair.

Lulu’s singing improvised arrangements to the tune in the record player while melting margarine in a frying pan. Tristana sits up, looking away from the ceiling and to the swirls of her wrist while she spreads the margarine, sprinkles some spices in. It already smells delicious. Tristana can’t believe how homely it is, and how much Lulu feels like a roomie she’s casually lived with for years.

It will be one more day of walking before they reach the safe zone around the portal. And Tristana’s gonna go back to her own house, and the garden and the greenhouse and the fridge packed with beers and veggies, and the military base where she goes to every day, and the bicycle rides along the captain to work and back.

_The Demacian army took hold of the portal, yes sir, we were outnumbered, no sir. We were found by a pair of human mages and taken to the camp Luxanna Crownguard manages, Poppy sponsored my healing..._

She didn’t even take note, right away, of the fact she could now sit up without hurting.

Her hand drags to her abdomen instinctually, touches with a fingertip. A neat little incision scar, clean and silky, splitting the short fur near her ribs where a bandage sat for three long weeks.

The bandage in her thigh is gone too, the only hint of it being two other scars: One where the arrow came in, one where it poked out. It didn’t even pierce the whole way through, the tip just peeked out the rear of her leg in a shy greeting. She couldn’t move it for two weeks; just two weeks ago, the mana drainage from the petricite arrowheads wore out enough to let her wriggle her toes if she really concentrated.

Lulu’s swapped to quiet humming. She clicks the barbecue tongs twice to the beat of her variation, places a steak fillet on the pan with the elegance of a Demacian duelist. The smell exploding right away and the sound make Tristana’s mouth water.

She likes this song, on the record player, right now. Teemo and Veigar’s voices, hotly debating on who gets to put the next vinyl in, muffle with the music. In spite of the spatial distortion spell the two sorcerers use to turn their cheap tent into full living quarters, she can still hear the noises of nature outside.

Let a blizzard arrive all of a sudden. A cold current from the Freljord. Oh no, what a shame, the path’s clogged with snow. _Fuck,_ she’s gonna groan, rolling her eyes. Teemo’s just gonna let a huff out through his nose cause he likes to pretend he’s stoic like that. _Guess we’re stuck here a bit longer,_ he’ll deadpan _._ Veigar’s gonna drop some verbose punchline digging at the scout, and Lulu’s gonna sigh resigned and will crawl back in the tent; _come on, guys, it’s super cold. I’m gonna make some hot tea. Or maybe you like chocolate? I just got a ration from..._

The little enchantress flips the steak, pours a pinch of salt on the pan; she’s moving like she performs a choreography.

“Why don’t you play the plants one?” She calls at her mate, flipping her hair in a wave while she turns to look at him for a split second.

“Dude. No.” That’s Teemo. He shouldn’t be calling her _Dude_. Shouldn’t be bantering with one of the city’s top two outlaws like he would with Kennen, or Poppy, or anyone respectable from their social circle. “It was my turn.” He’s holding a record, Tristana notes, out of the sleeve, waiting for his move.

“You heard the lady,” says Veigar, jutting forward to whip his hands away. “You like to be all courtesy and protocol and stuff, no? Ladies first, worm.” He pushes the invading beige arm away. Teemo struggles. He’s not saying anything, but he sure as hell’s not caving.

The sun is setting outside. Small magic lamps set around the house get their cue, light everything up in warmth. A bowl of salad sits, lovingly arranged, as the table centerpiece. Teemo made that. A simple pot with boiled potatoes rests by its side. Veigar made that. Tristana is already banned from kitchen duty. The steak looks divine and wafts a scent come from paradise; Lulu’s the best one at meal prep. Teemo and her have gotten a competition of sorts going on. She and Veigar have not complained, or bothered to stop them, or left any food uneaten.

This shouldn’t feel so much like home.

The men are bickering again. “Vei,” chirps the sorceress, not looking up from her task. “I’ve changed my mind. This is their last night here, let him do whatever he wants to.” She’s clearly done with the petty arguing, and her efforts to make them stop make Tristana feel an itch to smile.

Teemo pushes the warlock’s hand away with a final, triumphant shove, lifts the needle and swaps the record. The clinking of kitchenware is dulled by more music after an instant of creaky static.

The third steak enters the pan with a sizzle. Tristana jumps off the couch. The thigh doesn’t hurt, not anymore. She has the two ready to serve dishes in the table in a second.

The air is warm. cold, also.

* * *

Lulu has made a point of praying to the gods whenever they will eat. She also performs a ritual with every kill for food— _Thanks, Nature, I return this spirit to you to be reborn, its meat will nurture me, and these people I feed._ It’s weirdly poignant.

She’s matured so much, is Tristana’s conclusion: Her magic is stronger, her spells more versatile, her way of walking, of holding herself, reeks newfound elegance. The warlock isn’t far behind. She hates admitting that, but he messes around more often, his posture less closed off, more confident and firm.

“Thank you, Nature, for the meat and plants you’ve given us for nourishment today.” They all rest their hands, palms upwards, around the meal.

“Thank you, scout, for putting your love into these leaves and fruits to make them food for the belly and the soul.” Tristana can see him inhale. He doesn’t want to be praised by that; he’s made the strongest point of not warming up too much to them, understanding that letting them go unscathed in exchange for the sorceress’ healing is not the _right_ thing to do, not _morally_. The way his nostrils open up tell her everything about the cracking façade. He’s weak, too.

“Thank you, mate of the moon and the stars, for making potatoes that weren’t burnt to a crisp.” Lulu’s voice is quivering with laughter.

Veigar scoffs. “I was boiling them, there’s no way—“

He’s cut off by the sorceress’ cackle of delight. He can burn water, they all know so from experience. Tristana struggles not to break out in laughter with her. It’s best if she begins detaching.

As much as that sucks.

The warlock shuts his mouth in resignation just as Lulu regains her footing. “We appreciate your efforts,” she dots with a firm nod. Her glittery green eyes turn to the Commander herself. “Thank you, Gunner, for understanding you’re best off doing chores that don’t involve food.”

Her respect for Lulu’s partner is not reciprocated—Teemo breaks for a second, lets out hard laughter, and freezes back into stoicism.

“You’re such a dick!” She jabs at him, watching him bite the inside of his cheek not to come undone again.

Lulu doesn’t ever thank herself for her involvement in the food. It’s depressing, when one stops to think about it for long, so Tristana tries to never shuffle it in her mind for more than a few seconds.

“Tonight is the last night we have guests in our home. We have nursed a wounded kin back to health and protected her and her mate, in return for their favors. Thank you, sun, moon, stars, spirits, for being favorable in our voyage to deliver them safe to their home. Thank you for teaching us kindness and forgiveness. May the wind send them on their merry way.”

She notices Teemo’s jaw clenching. Her eyes sting, heat crawls up her throat; but she just dips her head, eyes lidded, as the prayer dictates, and loses herself in the monotone chanting of the fae sorceress as the casts a protective spell over the table and its patrons. When her chin is up again, she’s done burying those feelings; offers the mages but a gentle smile, chowing down potatoes and meat like there’s no pull inside her to go missing, wander around Valoran with them and Teemo like they are all four spirits of the forest from back in ancient eras, walking barefoot through the fertile soil, drying in the sun after bathing in the river and losing themselves gazing at the vast night sky.

What disturbs her most about the mages, in the end, is how she looks into a funhouse mirror when she looks at them—warped, but essentially the same.

How Veigar speaks in clinical terms about the stars and the disposition of the cosmos like her own mate dissects taxonomy in the greenhouse, ranting about mycology in words Tristana can’t understand, can only give a shit about cause he does, and his eyes glow when he talks about it with such untainted bliss it makes her belly full and her heart drum. How she’s sure Lulu pays such careful attention at the warlock and his schemes cause she sees the same, and it shows in her face.

Veigar and Teemo even drag words in a similar way, sometimes; slump against the tree trunks in in embarrassingly likewise posture. Lulu and herself probably indulged in splash wars in lakes and streams while bathing a lot faster than two supposed friends-turned-rivals should. Two friends-turned-rivals shouldn’t go on drawn out treks down the borders of streams while chatting their lives away, either.

She hates the mirror—hates that the reflection washes her with longing. She wonders if he feels the same.

Who knows. They’ll be gone tomorrow; in two or three weeks, routine will morph the longing into a vague haze. They’re not Veigar and Lulu, after all. They’ve got a city to serve.

**Author's Note:**

> There’s no context for where plot-wise this happens even though a plot kind of exists and you know, I don’t even know if I will ever bother writing it, but I hope you understand it anyway
> 
> The plants record is Mother Earth’s Plantasia, by Mort Garson


End file.
